


Moored

by Kitsu



Series: Bonded [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal, Biting, Blow Jobs, Dialogue - What Dialogue?, It's Spock After All, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Purple Prose, Scratching, Telepathic Sex, Unrepentant porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8023705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsu/pseuds/Kitsu
Summary: Spock realizes that feeling something might not be that bad. Not when it is McCoy making him feel...





	Moored

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry, not sorry - this is dirty, filthy, unrepentant porn. The plot hid under Bones' bed when I brought out the thesaurus with the intent to write this from Spock's perspective.
> 
> Tentatively proofread, but it's 00:15 and I'm tired, might have missed a few things. Do tell if you find something.
> 
> For those interested this was written mostly to:  
> In This Moment - Adrenalize  
> In This Moment - Bones  
> In This Moment - Natural Born Sinner  
> VNV Nation - Nemesis  
> VNV Nation - Beloved  
> VNV Nation - Nove (Shine a Light On Me)

“ _He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man_ ” - James Beattie, 'The Hermit'.

  
***

 

If not for his father confessing to loving his mother, Spock would perhaps have believed himself gravely ill, mentally unbalanced - but meditating on the surge of emotions and memories plaguing him in the aftermath of Altamid, he’d come to acknowledge that the one constant element in his dreams was a certain Doctor Leonard McCoy. Their prolonged proximity while stranded on the planet had apparently turned his heart in a direction logic would never have taken him. He hypothesized that he was experiencing romantic - and quite likely sexual - attraction to the man.

The doctor himself only confirmed Spock’s hypothesis when scanning him and analyzing the neurochemical readings. Indeed it was an illness of of sorts, the chemical imbalance named ‘love’ by so many species. As a biological imperative it was certainly not something easily disregarded - it was hard to cure, so to speak.

He’d informed McCoy he could repress his newfound affection if required of him, though it would have taken many weeks of deep meditation. It had not been deemed necessary - instead their souls had touched, as two halves of one whole, and resonated. For all that, Spock was still Spock and McCoy was still McCoy - _B_ _ones_ , if you asked Kirk. (Why he would refer to the doctor as the constituent parts of a vertebral skeleton, Spock would never get. He had heard the story - twenty-six times in fact - but it still made no sense to him. He just couldn’t use that name, and neither did _L_ _eonard_  ring right, sounding all too unfamiliar to his ears. _McCoy_  certainly sat best with him.)

The two of them were currently engaged in what humans termed 'a relationship', though one they had yet to inform anyone else of. Yet, Nyota had guessed the outcome of his first conversation with the doctor on the topic those few weeks ago, that much he was sure of. She was also currently trying to catch his attention across the crowded room during yet another ' _Keeping the crew up to date_ '-party, as Montgomery Scott had named it. Spock had obligingly appeared, in his capacity as First Officer. Keeping up appearances, as it were - though he certainly had other affairs he would rather be attending to. The other required participant in that affair, however, was also at the party, sipping at a glass of toxic-looking Finagle’s Folly. McCoy was chatting with Mr. Scott and Jaylah (who still hadn’t left for her Academy training) - and Spock most definitely _wasn’t_ keeping an eye on him.

Uhura finally caught him alone some minutes later. “I see you’ve had a talk with the good doctor.”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean.” He was, but saw no need to confirm it - though he knew she would never… _gossip_ , was the word, was it not?

“You certainly do.” She scowled at him over her drink, though a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Is everything well with you and him?”

“Well enough.” It was all she would get from him - when in fact things were so much more than ‘well’. Something buried deep between his guts and the base of his spine wanted time to pass quicker, black tendrils of it waking, twisting, making the hair on his arms rise whenever he happened to look in McCoy’s direction. That deep, dark _something_ felt like an entity apart, thoughts separate from his own, forcedly logical mind. Still, it was part of him, and _it_ wanted to be somewhere else, wanted to be doing something completely different from small talking with his crew. His hands tingled, nerves answering the darkness, forcing him to flex his fingers, images of how _it_ wanted him to use them on McCoy flashing through his mind.

He turned on his heel and left.

***

The timepiece showed 23:07 when McCoy showed up at his door. Spock notice - heard - a degree of hesitation in his steps - and realized him leaving abruptly might have been construed as displeasure at something. He also recognized McCoy’s innate pessimism, quickly coming to the conclusion that he should not let  McCoy linger in the hallway for too long, as he might conclude he had been at some fault to cause Spock to leave. Walking over to his door even before McCoy had hit the buzzer, he hit the open button, and stared straight into McCoy’s surprised face.

“I…,” the doctor started, but Spock silenced him effectively by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him into the room. As as soon as the closed behind McCoy, Spock pressed him up against the surface, pushing close, one leg between McCoy’s.

“I had to leave,” he said, almost softly, soothing. “I… My mind became preoccupied. I needed time alone.” He let ' _Not anything you did_ ' radiate at McCoy - even though it was _always_ something he did - he _existed_.

Visibly, McCoy relaxed.

And the dark _thing_ in Spock woke again, feeling McCoy melt against him. Letting his control slip for just a second Spock felt his eyes half close as he pushed closer, his head dropping down, resting in the space between McCoy’s neck and shoulder, where he breathed in McCoy’s own scent. The _thing_ wanted him to lick, to bite, to mark. Closing his eyes fully, he fought it, pushing it down, while righting himself and stepping back a step, trying to clear his mind - but McCoy didn’t allow it.

He’d apparently seen the darkness in Spock's eyes - and with a hungry grin on his face, he stepped after him, never letting Spock get the distance he needed to regain his equilibrium, and soon Spock found himself with his back to a wall. Trapped.

McCoy mirrored Spock’s previous position, breath warm across Spock’s ear and neck. “Tell me what you want. What you need.” It was barely a whisper, more a suggestion trailing along his senses.

The back of Spock’s head hit the wall as he bared his throat to McCoy. Closing his eyes, he felt McCoy raise an arm, his palm hitting the wall beside Spock’s head hard, rattling him. It rested there for mere seconds, before trailing downward, nails raking harshly through the hair at the nape of his neck, down the line to his collarbone, before fingers curled around his throat. Fingers so warm they felt feverish on his cool skin, strong and nimble, with blunt but sharp nails.

McCoy’s touch made the darkness roar to life, unfurling fully at the call from its bond brother, its limbs twisting and coiling along Spock’s every nerve, heating the blood in his veins, until his toes curled in his boots and his fingers clawed hard against the surface behind him, hard enough for chips of paint to dig in beneath his nails. The now familiar sense of McCoy’s self overlapping with his own, the almost-taste of him in his mind whispered in not-words, taunted, promised, wanted closer, closer, more, wanted to be one. Whole.

The dark thing - his _need_ \- answered, took control of Spock’s body, made it move, made it touch, made it crave. He had to confess, it felt good to yield his tightly wound control, to feel freer, higher than he ever did otherwise. Though McCoy was the only one he’d ever let see this side of him - McCoy was his own, personal psychopharmacologic disinhibitor - his drug, his addiction.

However often he told everyone, told himself, that emotions didn’t affect him - however much he wanted it to be true, sometimes they bubbled to the surface, in bursts he could neither predict nor control. McCoy seemed to forcibly pull responses from him, and most times Spock didn’t even mind, not when this was what it was like...  
  
Eyes still closed, he relished the sensations McCoy was lavishing upon him - teeth to skin, tongue to skin, wet, slick, sliding down the side of Spock's neck, hands sliding down to tug at fabric, to find skin, to touch - and he realized his own hands were wandering as well, tugging at the back of McCoy’s shirt, pulling it upwards, over McCoy’s head and dropping it beside them. His own came off just as quickly. Unbuttoning McCoy's pants, he slipped his hand inside, curling his fingers around McCoy's hot cock, several degrees warmer than Spock's hand. Skin so soft, taut over hardness. Flicking his wrist, he stroked, coaxed, caressed.

McCoy buried his face in the nook of Spock’s neck, and he heard his breath quicken, drawn between teeth, soon transforming into almost-whimpers, nearly-moans. McCoy’s hands were pawing at the front of Spock’s pants in response, and unable to control himself, Spock jerked under his touch. He wanted much more than mutual masturbation. Removing his hand from its confines, he grabbed hold of McCoy’s pants. Letting himself slide down the wall, to his knees, he pulled the fabric down along with him, leaving McCoy exposed. Spock leaned in, burying his nose in the dip between McCoy’s hipbone and cock. Rubbing his cheek against skin, he smelled fresh sweat, arousal, sex. Vulcans claiming humans smelled bad could never have been in his position.

His hands started trailing upwards, from the middle of McCoy’s calves, nails scraping against the thinner skin at the back of his knees. Continuing upwards, they came to rest on McCoy’s ass, kneading the muscle beneath them. McCoy had - in human terms - 'a nice ass'. Firm, touchable. Spock felt like teasing a bit, and smacked a cheek with a quick flick of his wrist. McCoy breathed hard above him, hands resting against the wall, steadying him. Spock looked up, stared into glazed over eyes, feeling an almost-smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the sight.

Moving, Spock changed the focus of his attention. Wrapping his fingers around the base of McCoy’s cock, he held it in place as he ran his tongue from base to tip. Wrapping his lips around its tip, he suckled it, revelling in the little sounds and moans soon filling his ears, in the tensing of muscle beneath his hand, in the sharp jut of McCoy’s hips.

Swallowing down until his nose touched the skin beside his fingers, the sharply drawn breath emanating from McCoy spoke of his appreciation of the act. Lips, tongue, and sometimes teeth, gently at work, Spock pulled more of those delectable sounds from McCoy’s lips, until they were replaced by the odd expletive, curses and even Spock’s own name. Muscles tensed further beneath his touch, until McCoy groaned a short warning, spilling in Spock’s mouth.

Salty tanginess on his tongue, Spock swallowed - and quickly rose to his feet, sure to touch as much skin on possible on the way up, palms sliding across hot, sweat-slicked plains of skin. Grabbing McCoy by the chin and pushing him up against the wall, Spock kissed him - almost frantic - letting him taste himself on Spock’s tongue.  

McCoy looked distanced, wet-eyed and relaxed. Spock wanted, _needed_ to see more of his lustfilled expressions. Just as quickly as he had risen, he sank to his knees again, unlacing McCoy’s boots, pulling them off his feet and helping him step out of his pants and underwear. He reached inside his pocket, searching for the small vial of lube hidden there - he’d taken to carrying it around after their first... _tryst_ \- though he’d never admit to it if asked.

Urging McCoy to turn and face the wall again with his hands, Spock leaned in and kissed the base of McCoy’s spine, running tongue and teeth across skin. Opening the bottle, he slicked his fingers and teased across McCoy’s entrance, eliciting more of those little moans and shudders he was starting to appreciate more and more. They had started appearing in his dreams, adding another level of realism to already frustrating, soul-shaking, filled-with-emotion dreams. Slowly, he worked his fingers inside McCoy, stretching, preparing, touching until McCoy was almost incoherently begging for _more._

Extracting his fingers, Spock rose again, pushing up against McCoy’s backside, realizing just how painfully hard he was, his pants still fastened and constricting. Simply unfastening it and pushing it down his hips along with his underwear, he grabbed his cock, giving it a few strokes with his slicked hand. Positioning himself behind McCoy, he lined himself up, pushing into, inside McCoy. _So tight, so warm, so good..._

Nearly collapsing flat against the wall, McCoy groaned, long, drawn out, between clenched teeth. His forehead fell forward to rest against the wall, giving Spock access to the long line of his neck and shoulder. He leaned in, running tongue and teeth along sweat-slicked skin, tasting another sort of saltiness. McCoy’s scent filled his nose, almost intrusive, intensely enticing. McCoy was filling his every sense, taking him higher and higher - _his only drug_. Feeling McCoy’s pulse beneath his lips, that feral _something_ roared again and he bit down, hard - hard enough to mark, hard enough to draw little droplets of blood, to taste iron and life. “ _Mine!”_ it screamed.

McCoy yelped and winced, a hard shudder running through him. “Dammit, Spock!” he hissed, but his voice was tinged with layers of lust along with a hint of irritation. Focusing on McCoy’s mind, not reading, simply skimming the surface, Spock _felt_. That pain-induced arousal, dark, red and warm, affection, want. Closing his eyes, he drowned himself in it, shutting out the rest of the world, moving in McCoy, feeling him. Wanting more, he pushed harder, pushed faster, but it wasn’t enough.

Stopping abruptly, he pulled out of McCoy - earning him a disappointed mewl from the doctor. “Face me,” he begged. “I’ll hold you up.” McCoy seemed happy to oblige, wrapping an arm around Spock’s neck and his legs around his waist. Using his greater strength, Spock held him up, carried him, pushed him against the wall. It was awkward, but doable. McCoy sank down on his cock, making him feel connected, grounded again. Spock moved again, slowly at first, getting used to the changed position. Feeling certain he could carry McCoy’s weight, he moved with more intent, filling his senses with McCoy again, letting that base instinct take control, drive him on.

Eyes barely focused, he watched McCoy almost claw at the wall with the one free hand, the other digging sharp nails into Spock’s shoulder, more than deep enough to draw blood. McCoy’s eyes were wrenched shut, his jaw likewise - muscles visibly tensing and relaxing in unison with Spock’s thrust. He looked almost pained, but what flooded the bond between them was the echo of intense, soul-splintering pleasure.

More, he needed even more. _Needed_ to be one. Grabbing McCoy’s arm, he urged McCoy to hold onto him with both hands. “Let me in?” he asked, placing three fingers on McCoy’s face. McCoy simply nodded, “ _Yes!_ ” radiating from the outer edges of his mind. Spock could barely speak the necessary words before everything that was Leonard McCoy flooded his mind, too open, too unrestrained, too focused on just just that moment. Any semblance of control Spock had retained evaporated, and he simply wallowed in the torrent that was McCoy’s mind, certain that McCoy saw too much of him as well, but he couldn’t find the will to care.

Conjuring images of himself touching McCoy in every intimate way he could think of, he played them in McCoy’s mind, until he was moaning, cursing, begging while clinging desperately to Spock. Head tilted back, McCoy’s mind screamed to bite him again, mark him more, to let everyone see who he belonged to, and before Spock knew what he was doing, he was biting again, raking teeth along skin, bone and sinew, bruising and breaking skin, licking to soothe. He wanted to be in McCoy’s mind when he climaxed, he needed to be.

Pushing him even harder up against the wall, he managed to wrap the hand not on McCoy’s face around his cock, stroking intently, while aiming shallow thrusts at McCoy’s prostate, driving him quickly towards completion. Just in time, but too soon, a tidal wave of bright, blinding white went nova in their shared mind, dragging them both along in its wake. As McCoy came with a shuddering groan, spilling across Spocks hand, he clamped down hard on Spock’s cock, internal muscles pulsing, dragging Spock over the edge. Dropping his head to McCoy’s shoulder, he came hard, his knees soon buckling under him. Unable to support McCoy any longer, they tumbled to the floor where they ended up lying in a pile of tangled limbs, both breathing hard and shallow.

Spock closed his eyes, trying hard to compose himself. McCoy was definitely bad for his mental equilibrium - but at some point his exasperation at the doctor’s intermittent emotional outbursts had stopped carrying any weight, even to himself. It _was_ thrilling to have someone so decidedly antithetic to himself in his life - opposition sharpened a mind. And though McCoy made him _feel_ , he was starting to come to terms with the fact that as long as he surrounded himself with mostly humans and other emotionally-guided species, that was something he would have to deal with. Having talked to Ambassador Spock and learned that he hadn’t attempted _kolinahr_ until in his forties, and aborted the final ritual at that, he’d realized that divesting himself of _all_ emotion to achieve a state of pure logic would not come easily to him, that his flux state between species was something he _could_ live with, for the time being at least, letting logic be his driving force when needed and emotions be an extra depth to call strength from in times of need. In that realization he’d actually found some serenity, some internal calm to tap into when he needed to moor himself - like now, when everything McCoy felt also felt like his own emotions. He breathed, trying to find his centre.

An attempt that was unceremoniously disrupted when McCoy slowly opened his eyes and grinned. “I just realized… You’re not only _in love_ with me, Spock. You actually _love_ me.”

***

McCoy was one of very few people who could literally make Spock grind his teeth - and Spock was fairly certain he did what he did on purpose.


End file.
